Photo by Qusai Akoud on Unsplash

[I]
At ten I learnt to ride the bicycle, the wind always on my trails
I squinted and agonised and scraped both knees,
but as my menacing bicycle grew alongside me,
our rides became friendly, our time together long

[II]
Coarse wheels displaced easy handle bars
and the touch of the bicycle became a tale as old as time.
As I swerved and cussed, I never looked back,
smiles growing distant as miles rolled on

[III]
In retrospect, my bicycle days were a wise old tree
oblivious to the depth of its roots.
When I stepped out of my skin—bark warm to the touch—
my feet planted firmly, the tree’s shade followed me around

[IV]
My shadows have been long, but what they say is wrong
about the art of balance—step after careful step to mend my previous fall.
Instead my bicycle taught me lasting hope for every way forward,
and to always remember to keep moving on